


days on

by furyspook



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 03:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17635226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furyspook/pseuds/furyspook
Summary: It’s not the dry heat that drives him into the smithy that afternoon, but he’ll say it is when he’s asked.





	days on

**Author's Note:**

> my pc is a thot but hes a thot in love

      It’s not the dry heat that drives him into the smithy that afternoon, but he’ll say it is when he’s asked. The shirt David wears is a thin cotton number, loose enough to bunch up around his hips where it’s tucked into his jeans and with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows-- it keeps him somewhat cooler, but as he steps inside and the breeze abates behind him he can feel the fabric cling to his back with sweat. The doorway is chilly, courtesy of a plastic fan seated halfway up the adjacent wall on its narrow decorative ledge, but David has been to see Clint often enough to know that should he take four more steps towards the desk he’ll feel the heat off the smelter.

      Clint calls out to him now from behind the desk, fidgeting his fingers over the computer keyboard without the telltale clack of actual type. “Is it personal or business today?” He sounds put-out, but that isn’t unusual.

      David crosses to the desk, but he doesn’t immediately start unloading geological marvels from his pockets, so Clint drops all pretense of having been hard at work, kicking back in his ancient rolling desk chair and shooting the other man a quizzical look. David’s palms plant on the desktop and he stalls to heave a sigh before sliding the bag off of his back and onto the ground. This routine is almost as familiar as the geode thing, and if Clint inclines his head in anticipation of some produce or other David won’t be put off.

      When David bends he bends at the waist, and as his head dips below the edge of Clint’s desk to retrieve his offering Clint can’t help but watch the planes of his back and arm angle and twist.

      “Call it a social call.” David says, and he straightens (as much as he can without taking most of his weight off of the desk) with a carton of strawberries in hand. He drops them nonchalantly atop a stack of incomplete order forms, and when Clint steers his eyes back up the lithe body to David’s face the man is grinning, lopsided and lazy. What hair clings to his forehead frames his bright eyes brilliantly, and it’s all Clint can do to smile back and grab blindly for a strawberry. “I just figured it had been a few days since I stopped by. I worry about you, cooped up in here all day.”

      There are no other chairs in the smithy, and so David stands, propped at the corner of Clint’s desk. It isn’t often people come in to hang out, and it doesn’t make sense to keep another one in the front, but these visits make Clint wonder if he shouldn’t get another anyway and David if he shouldn’t quit beating around the bush and just hop up onto the desk.

      Clint says, “It’s no big deal. I’ve been doing this my whole life, and I’m used to it by now.” and he eats the berry in one bite, pulling away the top and dropping it into the carton. While he chews he watches David’s smile quirk uncertainly. “Not that I don’t appreciate the company,” but the words are garbled around the strawberry.

      “‘Course not-- I know you like when I come around.” David’s still got that look on his face, the one that tells Clint that he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t speak again. He takes a strawberry for himself and tucks the tip between his teeth, and the bite itself is slow and thoughtful.

      “I do.” Clint says, and David nods.

      “You do.”

      Clint frowns and he exhales loudly through his nose, at which point David looks up from where he’s watching his fingers trail across signatures. He looks nervous. It’s rare that David looks anything but the picture of confidence, and Clint’s frown deepens.

      “What is it, Dave?” He tries to appear more friendly and open, leaning forward over his knees. It has _some_ effect, at least, because David is laughing.

      David grins. “ _David,_ please!” Clint snickers. David plucks at the strawberries again and his last breathy laugh occupies all of Clint’s attention. He takes a bite of his second and seems to consider his words while he chews. He’s suddenly acutely aware of the heat thrown out of the shop, the crackle of the flames in its pit. It’s another moment before he begins to explain himself. “I guess I just wonder what you would rather be doing.”

      Clint manages-- just barely --to keep his mouth from gaping. David’s fingers fidget and the buzz of the plastic fan seems to resonate with his heartbeat. “What I would rather be doing?” Clint asks finally, and he tries to track the emotions that pass over David’s face as if they could convey what, exactly, the other man is thinking. “How do you mean?”

      The expression that David’s face finally settles on is something resolute, the set of his jaw is strong and the determined light behind his eyes is impossible to overlook. “You always seem so sad… about your job, but about other things, too. So if you weren’t a blacksmith, what would you want your life to be like?” He can feel his palms sweating and needs to resist the urge to mop them over his midsection.

      “I… Uh,” There’s a confused wrinkle between Clint’s brows now, and David brings the back of one sticky hand to his mouth, where he presses his lips and hopes that it’s enough to keep the rush of his heart inside and out of reach. His lips tremble but he hides it, their dryness clinging to the clammy skin. Clint shakes his head and grabs at the front of his weathered apron like it is an anchor, answers, “I dunno, maybe fish? Maybe garden? I could see myself doing well on a farm like yours...”

      This seems to go over well. Clint watches David lower his hand and smile, something barely there and gone again. His mouth works for a moment around nothing and then he says, “Is there anything else you’d want?” and Clint’s hands still with their fingers knotted into coarse grey fabric. He doesn’t miss the flicker of David’s eyes from the wall behind Clint to his face and back again. Still nervous, or perhaps more than before. How could he make that feeling go away?

      Clint watches the man-- his _friend,_ for all that that means --wipe the hair from his forehead and then down the gentle slope of his neck, his hand catching just before the collar of his shirt, and Clint’s voice sticks in his throat. How can he stand here and ask that question? How can he be unaware of the answer? More than that, how can he expect Clint to answer? David towers over their little town like a legend, well-kept and well-met and well-liked, and even as he asks himself these questions Clint knows that David must already know. How often does Clint see the men in the square leaning in just that much closer, that he should think David is really that unobservant? He knows-- For sure, he knows. What does it mean, then? What does David want?

      David’s voice breaks the heavy silence between them and the words are slow in coming. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I should know better than to press like this--”

      “David, no!” Clint’s at the edge of his seat now. He’s reaching forward as if to grab David and reel him back in, but he stops himself before he can lurch from his seat like a desperate fool. “No, it’s alright!”

      The other man nods, and Clint heaves a sigh through his nose and steels himself for the end of this… this tentative _thing_ that folds in their company and heightens his awareness, clings to his memory, sings in his ears. It’s bright and wonderful and he would hate to see it shorn away, but the time was up and he couldn’t do anything but spill the beans. Those hefty, life-altering beans.

      “Come here. _P_ lease.” Clint gestures for David to approach. For a second it seems that he won’t, but David rounds the desk until he’s sagging back onto it with nothing between them. His hands fall on either side of him, gripping the edge of the desk with a controlled anxiety that borders on without falling into the territory of hard talons, and his feet are flat to the floor. Clint pushes his chair forward until the space between them is only inches and he reaches out to cup both hands under his own calloused fingers. David’s hands are smaller, but only just, and Clint admires the way he can almost hide them beneath his own even if he doesn’t have the time to do it properly.

      He looks up at David, and David looks down at Clint. The chest before his face is very still, breath held carefully, like the slightest movement could shatter the peace.

      “ _I_ …” Clint clears his throat to fight the waver of his voice, and begins again. “I want _you_.”

      It’s a quiet admission, and one that Clint isn’t sure he could have made under different circumstances. He feels David’s fingers jump under his hands. The man’s face is not unreadable, but Clint is so strapped at present that he can’t seem to understand the language of his eyebrows or the corner of his mouth. David shakes his head. “You mean that?”

      Clint nods.

      David nods.

      And then David’s face is split with a grin. He ducks his head to hide his face though Clint wishes that he wouldn’t, and his fingers twist under Clint’s hands until they’re freed, at which point he slots them gently into the other’s and holds them loosely like he might break them.

      “You have no idea how happy that makes me.” David says. He still doesn’t look up, afraid that he’s being tricked, that he’ll say his piece and it will have been for nothing. Humiliation, denial-- all things with which he’s very familiar. He doesn’t want that this time. Clint will make sure that it never reaches him.

      “I might have some idea.” Clint suggests. David lifts their hands from the desk into the slighter and slighter-still space between them. Clint can feel his breath ghosting over their knuckles and it sends a jolt of excitement through him. “I’ve been--” He begins, stops, begins again, “Every time you come in here I want you to stay.”

      David’s position against the desk gives him a foot at least on Clint where he sits in his rolling chair, so when David leans forward to kiss him it’s awkward, and crooked, and tipped and unbalanced, but Clint takes David’s face in his hands and holds him steady while he sinks to his knees on the floor. Clint follows his mouth with his eyes firmly shut, chasing the slow pull of David’s lips until he is nearly bent double over his lap. Hands push through his hair and hold him firm and he can’t help but start to feel along David’s jaw himself, to explore with blind fingertips what he has only imagined feeling before. David seems to have found peace with his arms roped ‘round Clint’s neck but Clint won’t be satisfied until he’s studied every plane and dip.

      David’s body tenses when Clint drops his hands to the other man’s chest, and the kiss stops rather abruptly. Clint doesn’t dare open his eyes in case he’s committed some fatal error, but David doesn’t pull away. His hot lips brush against Clint’s cheek and then they’ve reached his ear, and he’s whispering.

      “I wouldn’t touch that,” Clint rolls his palms across David’s sides and feels the shiver of his next breath when he continues, “Unless you’re ready to take this further…”

  
      Now Clint opens his eyes and he considers their position. David’s arms are wrapped so tightly around his neck that he can’t turn his head or see his own hands, but Clint’s answering shiver is accompanied by a heavy pet across David’s ribs and he doesn’t need to _see_ to know that the man in his arms is bowing up into the touch with similar enthusiasm. David kisses the shell of his ear and buries his face in the crook of Clint’s neck where he muffles a frustrated groan in the fabric of Clint’s t-shirt. Of course he wants to go on; he wants to do anything and everything to make David feel good, feel wanted.

      Not to mention that he can feel _every_ muscle through that man’s shirt and can’t think about anything else.

      “I think I’m ready, yeah,” David’s arms are moving again and he’s mouthing at Clint’s neck now, warm and breathy and barely lingering in any one place. “But maybe it’s time to move this… somewhere else..?”

      David isn’t any stranger to Clint’s bedroom: they’re good friends, and he’s surely picked through every piece of the place by now. It had been embarrassing at first, knowing that David was probably reading his books and sitting on his bed while he, himself, was out in the forge, but Clint warmed up to the idea quickly and David didn’t know how to stay away. On more than one occasion Clint had forgotten David was visiting until he walked into his quarters and found the man asleep atop his blankets. Always on top-- maybe it had been too strange to sleep under the covers when they were strictly platonic. Maybe that isn’t going to be an issue anymore. Maybe Clint could even get David into his sheets this very night.

      Still, it’s a question.

      David stops trying to gently devour Clint’s neck and leans back on his haunches to think. “Yeah,” He says, and Clint lets out the breath he’s been holding. Clint takes back his hands and David frowns-- pouts, really, and it’s absolutely darling. “You’re probably right… My knees’ll start hurting like crazy if I stay down here.”

      Clint laughs. David looks like he wants to laugh, but is much too dedicated to the act of the put-upon, starved lover.

      Shit, does David think of Clint as his lover?

      Clint thinks of David as his lover, evidently. That was fast. He hopes that that isn’t weird.

      Clint hooks his hands under David’s arms and hoists with all of the power his seated, off-balance body allows, pulling the man up between his legs and urging him to stand. David does stand, and next he pulls Clint up from his rolling chair. They’re in each-other’s arms again, Clint searching knotted muscle out of David’s back and David nudging at his jaw with the bridge of his nose. He’s eager to get back to the touching, and Clint can’t exactly say that he isn’t. They hurry into Clint’s room, and he kicks the door shut behind them.

      It takes all of his strength not to kiss David senseless there against the door, not to drop in front of him and take what he can, and David’s hands are digging into his hips as if he’s urging them forward, but--

      Clint pulls back for just a moment, but a moment is enough for David to slip past him. He takes one of Clint’s hands, fingers tacky with sweat but still holding his own very gently between them, and he leads Clint to his bed. “Better here,” He says.

      The next few seconds stretch on and on. The backs of David’s legs hit the bed and he drops onto it, slides back until he’s confident that they’ll lie comfortably. Clint’s hand brushes up the inside of David’s wrist, his own looped in that same gentle hold to draw him further in, and he knees up onto the mattress above his friend-- his something, who guides him so carefully and yet so _magnetically_ between his legs and over his body. David squirms while Clint arranges his hands, one beside his head and fisted into the pillow, and one cupping David’s ribcage in that way that’s driving him crazy.

      In the next moment David is surging up to meet him, throwing his arms around Clint’s back to pull him low, bring him closer, fit their lips together again. Clint melts into the kiss but he keeps palming at David’s chest and sides like it’s a matter of life or death. It means that David keeps making those little noises, pulling at his shirt, bowing up to reach him, and it means that he’s enjoying himself.

      “ _Down!_ ” David mutters between kisses, and Clint doesn’t understand at first. It becomes much more obvious when David’s hips push off of the mattress to meet his, a fabric-rustling collision that has Clint’s attention immediately.

      He hitches lower, sagging until he hears David gasp. His feet are already planted on either side of Clint’s legs, pressing him up into Clint’s crotch in uneven thrusts, and he moans now into the open air beside Clint’s ear, and it’s the hottest thing that Clint has ever heard.

      Clint grinds down into his next thrust and something in him roars to life, because even through two layers of fabric (and a third _wild card_ layer, the apron he’s still fuckin’ wearing) Clint feels the pressure of David’s hardness against his and it’s all starting to feel really, _really_ good.

      Clint bows lower, rocks harder, watches David’s face as his brow furrows and his mouth falls open around a whine. David’s thrusts are coming more weakly the stronger Clint’s become, but he can’t say that he minds. He’ll consider it repayment for all of the strawberries, he thinks, catching David’s mouth with his own. He feels a sharp buck and his dick jumps, the kiss breaks so that he can gasp, and he hears David laugh low. It’s hardly embarrassing, but Clint manages a smirk before he grinds up again between David’s legs, turning those airy chuckles into a moan that’s just _music_ to his ears. His rhythm is barely a rhythm and he’s sure that the pressure is inconsistent, but David doesn’t complain. If anything, he _encourages_. The way that he’s wriggling and twitching, Clint can guess what’s coming, and he’s willing to provide.

  
      One particularly good grind pulls a hissed “ _Oh!_ ” from David, and a string of them follow in tandem with frantic thrusts of his hips. His hands cling to Clint’s apron and the smith can feel them trembling with his orgasm. Clint drags their hips together again while David burrows into his beard, panting against his cheek and jerking into the scant space between their bodies.

      Clint feels the friction on David’s side start to ease as the last of his orgasm is wrung out of him, and Clint slows his pace to a crawl. It’s difficult to still his hips but he knows how overstimulation feels and doesn’t want to push David into something more uncomfortable than he bargained for, so after David’s fingers unlatch Clint rocks back onto his knees again to give him some space.

      David barely has the presence of mind to smile, but red-faced and wet-eyed he does, and his hands cup Clint’s fuzzy jaw like a precious thing, and Clint grins back down at him like the sun.

      There’s a momentary disconnect between his brain and his groin, and when David shifts his hips over the covers Clint’s gyrate into open air.

      “You not come?” David’s fingers twitch along his jawline.

      Clint doesn’t answer right away, weighing his options between getting off and letting the other stay in his bliss for as long as possible, but he feels the ache of his dick trapped in his pants and he sees the pink fading from David’s cheeks and he shakes his head. His hips grind against nothing again, and David’s lips quirk into a frown. He’s concentrating.

      “Here,”

      David’s hands disappear from his face and he feels them fall gently over his abdomen, feeling lower to the edge of his apron, to the waistband of his jeans, until the fingers are fidgeting with the button and pulling him down. It’s tricky to maneuver through the fastenings without looking, which David very pointedly is _not_ doing, and it will be even more difficult if he manages to pull Clint down on top of him again. Clint has the idea to stay David’s hands momentarily to herd him to one side of the mattress, settling himself on the bed beside him instead. This is a better angle for seeing and for adjusting, and in short time David’s tugging at Clint’s zipper and fingering the hot trail of Clint’s dick as he does.

      When David’s hand finally edges into his boxers Clint sucks in a hard breath and praises whatever kept his hands so warm. The touch is soft, tentative as fingers curl around his shaft and stroke lines up from the base. Clint can’t help but move against him, and as if answering his cue David’s hand curls around him and _pulls_.

  
      Under David’s hand Clint’s head starts swimming, finding his eyes and trying to articulate emotion without any real hope of doing so. He’s trying to form words-- really _any_ words, and they don’t even need to be incredibly _coherent_ \--but he can’t do more than groan and hope that it means the same. David has him wrapped up in sensation, and very shortly in the wide crook of his arm as well. It’s an awkward embrace but Clint follows where he’s led, scooting closer until they can bring their lips together again. Like this it’s harder not to jerk into David’s fist, so he doesn’t try to stop himself.

      David brushes his other hand up Clint’s shoulder to his neck. Now that his head is clear he has eyes only for Clint and for the look on his face as he rubs him off. He notices the way that his eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth falls open wide around a gasp, and he kisses Clint again, a sloppy press of lips to the side of his chin. Clint’s body goes rigid and he shakes under David’s fingers. David kisses him again, and again, and Clint pulls himself back to awareness under tender ministrations, both of David’s hands in his hair.

      “Hm?” David hums, some nonspecific but obvious question. He combs through Clint’s hair with sticky fingers but doesn’t seem put-off, which makes Clint laugh.

      “Yeah,” He answers.

      Clint hooks his arms under and around David’s back and curls around him in a spent knot, and when he looks, when he feels David’s hands slip ‘round his cheeks, David’s eyes are half-lidded and content. Maybe he’ll stay there. Maybe Clint can keep holding him until they both sink into sleep.

      “Sorry to drag you away from your work.” David says.

      Clint laughs again, and this time he has breath enough to do it. “Right, because I’m _very_ upset, and I _hate_ being dragged away from my furnace!” David rolls his eyes and, disappointingly, he pushes himself up onto his hands and leans away.

      “I just mean that it’s maybe two P.M., and I pulled you back here to fuck.” David mops old sweat from his forehead with one sleeve. “‘S unprofessional.”

      “I’m fine, I swear!” Clint rolls up onto one elbow himself and feels the uncomfortable tangle of his apron pinned beneath his side. _Work!_

      David looks down at him and grins. A blush hardly lingered, but Clint could swear that he was glowing just the same. “I’m only kidding!” He shifts uncomfortably in his jeans, settles into a wide-spread kneel. “I know that you don’t mind! Kidding, kidding!" 

      When Clint huffs and David laughs, Clint finds that he isn’t upset with the teasing at all. David isn’t so easily made to regret. _It’ll serve him well,_ Clint thinks, _now that he’s with me._

      The mattress creaks when David stands on it, hops off of it onto the floor. Clint rolls quickly to catch him, but finds himself caught instead in the warm embrace of David’s arms. He’s kneeling by the bedside with his face buried in Clint’s chest, like he’s steeling himself. He stays there for a long moment, breathing deeply, and then he stands. Adjusts the twists in his clothing. Looks at his shoes like he’s surprised to see that he’s still wearing them (Clint is also surprised to see that he’s still wearing them-- it’s been a hell of an afternoon). He smiles but it’s almost embarrassed, and then he waves a one-handed farewell.

      “I gotta get back.” He says. Clint can feel the frown growing across his face, but David can _see_ it and he tries to cut it off at the head. “I left just about all of my equipment on the lawn, and Lewis thinks it’s gonna rain.”

      “So?” Clint allows himself a pout-- just one, in the name of gentle guilt-tripping.

      David shakes his head and sets his hands on his hips, wide-stance, no-nonsense. “ _So_ I don’t want to get home tomorrow morning to a complete mess. Caked mud doesn’t come off easy.”

      Clint has a couple of things that he could say about caked mud, but he relents. “Alright. If you need to go, I’ll try not to mope about it.”

      “I’ll miss you.” David says sincerely, and Clint can’t help the hitch in his breath when he takes it all in. David coming to him, kissing him, sleeping with him, now standing in the doorway with his hair a mess and his clothes a mess and his face lit up like a star. Missing him when he leaves. Coming back.

      “Will you come back?” Clint asks before he can stop himself. It’s desperation, again, clawing at him, feeding his insecurities. David grins.

      “Of course I will! When I’m through.”

      David waves again and opens the door back out into the smithy.

      Clint snaps up. “Wait! David, your pants!” He gestures widely, barely stops himself from fumbling with his own open zipper. “At least borrow a pair of mine!”

      David’s laugh is so sharp it’s almost a bark, and he leans back around the door to offer his parting words: “I’ve had worse!”

      And then he’s gone. And the door is closed.

      And Clint lies himself back down, alone, to stew over whatever in the hell _that_ meant.


End file.
